


Sherlock Holmes Boy Detecive

by LoveAllTheFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveAllTheFandoms/pseuds/LoveAllTheFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an eleven-year-old foster child. He moves into a new foster home and soon becomes friends with the neighbor boy: Sherlock Holmes. Soon they start their own junior detective agency to solve cases throughout the neighborhood. Together the boys, both hurting and suffering in their own ways, help to heal each other through friendship and mystery solving. Written from the point of view of John (in his journal).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sign of Friendship

I want to make one thing clear straight off the bat: this is not a diary. Only girls have diaries. Boys are allowed journals, though. My sister said lots of boys keep journals. Especially writers, and I want to be a writer when I grow up. That or a doctor. Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t make much difference since this isn’t a journal either. I asked for one I saw at the shops, but Mrs. Frank gave me a (very long) pad of yellow paper from Mr. Frank’s office instead. 

I have been living with Mr. and Mrs. Frank (and their real son Marcus) for a little over a week now, but I’ve been in foster care for thirteen months. I have lived with three different families in my life, including the one I was born into. Last year I was in a car crash. My mum and dad both died. Afterwards, I was meant to live with my big sister (Harriet) but the social worker decided Harry couldn’t take proper care of me. She’s an alcoholic. Plus, my sister is a university student. She hasn’t got a very good job. Michelle, my social worker, said Harry wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for my school, and clothes, and food, and a bunch of other things. Michelle didn’t realize how much my sister needs me, though. She doesn’t drink as much when she has to watch me. The last time I saw her, she was completely sloshed. Now she has to do visits with someone supervising us. 

After I was taken from my sister’s flat, I lived with the Dawkins family. Mr. Dawkins is the meanest man I have ever met. He and his wife used to shout all the time. Sometimes I’d get in trouble (usually over something insignificant) and he’d make me lie over his lap, while he hit my butt with a belt over and over. One day, Mrs. Dawkins was making dinner and I was playing with a rubber ball in the kitchen. It accidentally bounced off a cabinet and landed in the pasta pot. Water splashed out and hit her face. Mrs. Dawkins wasn’t burnt because she’d just put the pot on the burner, but Mr. Dawkins heard her yelp, and he became furious.

He raced to the kitchen, yanked me out of my chair, and dragged me over to the stove. Then, he lifted me up, forcing my hand into the pot. By then the water was boiling. I don’t know if you’ve ever accidentally spilled a hot tea or soup on your hand, but this was a million times worse. It felt like my whole arm was going to melt off. Tears and boogers dripped down my face. I looked like a pathetic baby.

“Please stop, Mr. Dawkins—I mean Pop, please let me go. I’m sorry I was bad. I promise I won’t do it again. I promise, I promise, please stop,” I begged. I even called out for my mummy. My real one. Mr. and Mrs. Dawkins made me call them Ma’ and Pop. 

Most of my arm turned dark red, and in some places the burns were black. Every inch skin was covered in bubbly blisters. It continued hurting even after he put me on the ground and let me go.

“I’m sure you’ll remember this the next time you think about messing about,” he declared. “Go to the loo and bandage your arm,” he instructed. “Since you apologized, you may join us for dinner.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold the silverware with my left arm all wrapped up. So, I kept dropping things from pain. I tried using my right hand but only made more of a mess. After dinner, my arm started to bleed through the bandages. Mrs. Frank took me to the hospital. 

My doctor called social services, even though I lied about how I got the burns. Mr. Dawkins went to prison, and I was taken to live with the Frank family. My new foster parents aren’t as bad as the last ones, but they aren’t terribly nice either. I think they only take in kids like me because they get a weekly check for caring for us. It’s kind of like being a mum and dad for money. Life here isn’t too bad, though. 

Mr. and Mrs. Frank bought me some new books—the good kind, not the school ones, and they let me play with nearly all the toys in their house. Once I finish my homework and chores, I get to watch telly every day. Marcus—Mr. and Mrs. Frank’s real son—and I take turns deciding what to watch. Except on Saturdays when we all watch football. I don’t have my own room here; I have to share with my foster brother. He has a bed shaped like a racecar. He’s only seven. I sleep in the bunk bed. Marcus said they sometimes have two foster boys at once.

I’ve only been in this house a week, but I already made a new friend. No, it’s not Marcus. My friend is this great, but weird kid called Sherlock Holmes. He lives in the house next to mine, and is one of the cleverest and bravest people I have ever known. He’s really good at figuring out all kinds of things. He knows just about everything about everyone. He was able to work out all sorts of stuff about my mum and my dad (and Harry) just from looking at me! I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let me get back to the story.

I knew Sherlock Holmes was different, special, and brilliant (but don’t tell him I said all those nice things) from the moment we met, and not because he has a funny sounding name. I met Sherlock last Tuesday. That was my first day in the house. I had breakfast with my foster parents and foster brother. Then, Marcus and I played hide and seek for a bit, but he kept cheating. 

So I went to the back garden and sat on their swing-set. I’m eleven, so I’m too big for it but I wasn’t going to break the thing. Suddenly, a tall, incredibly thin boy with curly, black hair came running down the street. He hopped over the fence and landed right in front of me. He had sad green-ish blue eyes, razor sharp cheekbones, and his entire body was covered in bruises of varying ages. Despite his scrawny size, the boy seemed close to my age. His left arm was in a bright red plaster cast, and the knuckles of both his hands were scratched up. I could tell the poor kid had been getting his arse kicked on a regular basis. I knew he’d been fighting back because of the injuries to his knuckles. The thought of this scawny, little thing trying to defend himself against an assault was almost enough to make me cry even though I didn't know him yet.

“If you keep stealing things you’re going to get kicked out of the Frank’s house,” the black-haired boy announced. “That watch was foolish thing to nick, anyhow. It was once rather valuable but the water damage will likely prevent the clock from ever running again.”

“I didn’t steal it!” I shouted, popping up off the swing. If he hadn’t seemed so pathetic, I probably would have punched him in the face. “It was my dad’s watch, my real dad.” A wave of shame washed over me, and I couldn’t continue to make eye contact. “Shows how much you know,” I muttered, staring at my shoes.

“I know a lot: you were in a car accident—‘bout a year ago based on the state of that scar on your neck. The crash likely killed or severely injured your parents. That’s’ why you live in a foster house,” he said as if answering a question on an oral exam. “You think the crash was your fault but your father’s wreck was inevitable. That’s what drunks do.” Some older boys came running down the road. I could tell they had been chasing after Sherlock because less than a minute had gone by since he’d hopped over the fence. I was grateful to discover his abuse hadn’t been at the hands of his parents.

“You see a freak with a arm cast?” A fifteen-year-old boy shouted, stopping to glare at me. They couldn’t see Sherlock because he’d ducked between some bushes and the garden wall. I shook my head no, and the bullies ran off.

“Wha—how did you know all that?” I asked once we were alone. I’ve never told anybody how I was acting up right before we crashed. I was too scared to mention it to Harriet, the doctors, and everyone else. 

“You said the watch was your dad’s, and you didn’t steal it. It’s expensive, but broken, and completely out of style. It’s also much too large for you. You keep the watch because of its sentimental value. There are scratches on the dial and faceplate, which means the original owner was careless, probably intoxicated, when winding it. Therefore, I know your father—the owner—was a drunk. If he’d died of liver rot, you’d be with your mum. So, they most likely died together.. The scar on your neck is crooked, from a cut made by jagged glass. I put everything together and concluded that your parents died in a car accident, where you got the scar.” 

“Wow,” I whispered, staring at him in amazement. “But how did you know it was my fault? I never told anyone how my dad was turning around to smack me when we had the accident.” 

“There’s guilt written all over your face. But as I said, you shouldn’t blame yourself. Your father was an alcoholic. Crashing was inevitable. A sober driver can deal with most distractions and/or road hazards without killing people. A drunken one will eventually crash, regardless of the conditions. He let go of the wheel because he was too intoxicated to realize what a bad decision it was. Not your fault.” 

“Thank you,” I whispered, reaching to hug him. Sherlock backed away. His hands were trembling like he was afraid of me. “It’s just a hug. Like we’re friends.” 

“Oh,” he replied, sounding confused. 

“How did you notice all those things? And how’d you put them together to discover my secret?” Sherlock muttered something about the power of observation and deduction. “You’re incredible,” I declared. 

“That’s not what people usually say,” he whispered, staring at his feet. 

“What do people usually say?” I asked, but I suspected these “deductions” (as he called them) were usually less helpful than they’d been for me. After just a few minutes together, I could imagine how annoying it might be to spend a significant amount of time with Sherlock Holmes. 

“Piss off,” he answered. He nudged me gently and smirked. I knew his nonchalance was just a cover for emotional pain. I always made jokes, and pretended like I didn’t care when I talked about my dad, or Mr. Dawkins but I was really upset. It sucks being treated like crap and you don’t want anyone to know. If people know, it only feels worse. I put my arm around Sherlock and smiled back.

“Well, you know all sorts of personal details from my life,” I said, as the embrace ended. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” 

“I figured all those things out on my own. You can do the same.” I frowned but nodded in agreement. Sherlock and I spent all of Tuesday afternoon together, and every day since. Today, he even invited me into his house for tea and cakes. He’s got this amazing chemistry set and all sorts of cool toys and stuff. So, we did a bunch of experiments. Just before I had to come inside for dinner, Sherlock and I—mostly me; he may be brilliant but he never does anything important with his talents—came up with the best idea ever.

“You should be a detective or something,” I told him. Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope and stared at me like I’d just asked him to play Pretty, Pretty Princess. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes complained. “Nobody in their right mind listens to children, especially not when it comes to crime. I speak from experience. I practically solved a whole murder last year, but the police wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. The killer is still at large.” 

“We can’t work for the police; we haven’t even started secondary school yet, but other kids might hire us. Maybe some of the grownups around here too. You’re a bloody genius. Once we get a couple of smaller cases under our belts, people will have to take us seriously.” Sherlock eyed me suspiciously. 

“A lot of the people around here know who I am. They can’t stand me, and I don’t particularly care,” Sherlock announced, “Most people are boring—you at least are interesting. I enjoy spending time together.” 

“We should still try. If nobody wants to hire us, I’ll still want to be your friend,” I offered. He eventually conceded. We wrote up a poster and then made copies at the library. They signs say ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Boy Detectives. Any Case Solved ₤5 or Double Your Money Back.’ It also included the address and phone number of Sherlock’s house, as I might not be living here in six months. His parents really like their place. I don’t think they’ll ever move. Plus, the Franks would be angry if loads of people were calling and coming over to see me all the time. 

I had to fight like Hell to get him to put the money back thing on the sign but it’s my best idea yet. After what I’ve seen him do the last few days, I know he could solve all the mysteries of the Universe, given enough time. He can figure out anything people in this town need from him. It’d probably take him ten minutes to do it, too. “Besides,” I told my friend, “We need something to grab their attention. You’re not scared of messing up, are you?” 

”Of course not, but we’ll get beaten up if I tell a bunch of kids their dogs weren’t set to farms, but are actually dead,” he told me with a haunted look in his eyes. “I’m actually quite good at defending myself. However, if we get into too many fights, your social worker might think you’re being abused and take you away.”

“Then, we won’t take on any cases of kids who want to find out which farm their dog is living on,” I told Sherlock, pretending to laugh. He reached over with his arms extended. This was actually the third time he tried to hug me this week but Holmes had chickened out the first two times. Today he actually did it!


	2. A Study In Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock's brother and they work their first case. Some spoilers for season 3 of Sherlock but not really.

Sherlock and I took on our very first case today! He was so amazing, I almost couldn’t believe it. I know I’ve written a ton about how smart he is and how he notices and remembers all kinds of things but this was even more spectacular than normal. The morning started with Sherlock searching for insects in the garden. “It’s an experiment,” he explained. 

“You’re not going to rip off the wings or electrocute them, are you?” Sherlock glared at me. He seemed offended. “Well what other kind of experiment can you do with a bug?” 

“I want to see if I can train a beetle to walk through a maze,” he explained. I felt bad for my insinuation, but I think he had already forgotten what I’d said. At the very least he had moved on to re-explaining the deduction thing. “You have to start buy paying attention to everything. What people say. What they do. What they don’t say. The thing they try not to do. The stains on their clothes…anything could be important.” He began to go back over how he figured out about my parents but I interrupted him. 

“Yeah, you already explained how you knew my secrets a bunch of times. You said it was obvious, and you’re right. I wouldn’t be here if my parents were capable of taking care of me, which means I lost at least one of them or they were both very ill or something. I need a new example.” My friend seemed impressed by my having memorized his deductions. Possibly even flattered. 

“Come inside, I’ll show you some of my files,” he instructed, giving up his search and leading me towards the house. There was a boy—well, a man I guess. He was 19 or 20—in the kitchen. He had short red hair and piercing green eyes. He was tall, but very chubby. His face looked a bit like Sherlock’s but his personality was a thousand times worse. He attacked both of us right off the bat. 

“Seems I owe you an apology, Little Brother,” he declared. I’d met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. They are super nice and totally ordinary. I always wondered how my friend got like this. Now that I’ve dealt with Sherlock’s brother I understand. “Maybe you do have a friend.” The red-haired boy turned towards me. “He isn’t paying you to spend time here, right? No fair cheating, Sherlock.” They glared at each other. 

“He’s the best friend I’ve ever had,” I declared, defensively. I took Sherlock’s shaking hand in mine, partially because I was terrified he might punch his sibling given the chance. With one arm in a cast and the other being held by me, a fist fight would be impossible. 

“John, this is Fatty. Fatty, John,” he spat through gritted teeth. The chubby redhead chuckled to himself, and I wanted to slug him myself. 

“Ah yes, the other detective,” he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The man reminds me of Mr. Dawkins, the way he acted like he was so much better than us. His cruel nature was also a bit like my sister when she drinks too much. Harry gets silly and fun after two drinks, but once she’s had five or six of them, she is a nightmare. Sherlock looked sad, scared, embarrassed, and furious all at once. Fatty(who I later learned was called Mycroft. What is up with the names in this family?) remained robotic throughout the entire exchange. “Be careful,” he warned, “Remember what happened to Redbeard.” I saw a tear slide down Sherlock’s cheek before he erupted in a fit of fury and obscenities. I had just enough time to stop him head-butting the jerk. 

“I hate you, Mycroft!” he finally shouted, trying to break through my grip. “I hate you, and I wish you were dead!” I dragged Sherlock back towards his bedroom, pulling him inside. Then, I shut and locked the door. 

“Your brother is the biggest arsehole I’ve ever met,” I told my trembling friend. “He’s also got the biggest arse I’ve ever seen.” The tinniest hint of a smile ghosted over his face. “And I have some deductions about you two. Your brother is a monster. I don’t think he feels much of anything for anyone. Ever. He didn’t even flinch when you said you wanted him dead. Even when Mr. Dawkins said stuff like that it made me cry and I barely knew him. It’s good for Mycroft because he never has to deal with being lonely or feeling pain. You on the other hand, are super sensitive. I know you think it would be nice to feel the way he does, or rather to not feel. You’re probably right but you and your brother couldn’t be more different and that is wonderful. The only thing you two have in common, are a couple of small surface details,” I promised. “And while it might help never to be lonely or in pain or scared, you’d also miss out on all kinds of awesome stuff. Like, the way it feels when we do fun stuff together or whatever.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, letting me know he had heard but did not fully agree with what I had said. “You are brilliant, and funny, and sensitive, and you make me feel better when I’m down.”

“I enjoy spending time with you. I’ll admit to that. Anything you receive from the relationship is secondary.” This is what my therapist calls a coping mechanism. He didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t admit to it. Once again. 

“Also, you don’t have to answer me, but was Redbeard your dog?” He lifted his head, tears quickly being replaced by an expression of shock. “When we were making the flyers, you said something about dogs on farms and you got this look on your face... Someone told you your dog was going to a farm, but then you found the truth out later, right?” He nodded. “It makes sense your brother bringing him up now. You were attached to the dog and then he was gone and that sort of thing always hurts. In his own, stupid, mean way, your fat brother is trying to protect you.” 

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock groaned. “He doesn’t care what happens to me. You got everything else right, though. It was all fairly obvious, but I am still somewhat impressed.” My friend chuckled. 

“Well, I am a beginner, I replied. He smiled again. “Wanna try and do the experiment now?” He shook his head no. “What about some biscuits. Assuming Mycroft hasn’t eaten them all.” 

“Sugar is a terrible treatment for depression,” he replied, staring at his shoes, hands in his pockets. Sherlock wanted the snack but was afraid of another confrontation with Mycroft. He may talk a big game, but there’s only so much pretending he can do. I wouldn’t ever say that Sherlock Holmes is a nice guy, or all cute and cuddly like a kitten or anything, but he’s not an emotionless robot the way he pretends to be either. 

“Come off it,” I ordered, as I pulled the door open, bracing myself for a run. “If you don’t hurry he and I will finish them all." Sherlock nearly knocked me over trying to get to the kitchen first. I giggled, racing after him. Five minutes later, we heard the secret knock on the back door. Two loud knocks, one quiet taps, and one last loud one. 

“A client!” we declared, and raced to answer the door. We were greeted by an eight or nine-year-old boy, in short pants and a dinosaur t-shirt. 

“I’m here to see the detectives,” he explained. We nodded, and took him to the sitting room. “My name is Julian Wallace. I went on a scout trip this weekend. Before I left, I buried this jar of change in he garden. I’ve been saving up all year and have nearly a hundred quid! Well, now I’m back and the money is gone.” 

“Are you certain you’ve been searching in the correct place?” my pal asked. He tented his fingers, pressing his hands against his chin. 

“Of course. My parents have a pretend rock in the garden, with an extra house key attached. I buried my jar directly under the rock, exactly one meter down. Then, I took a photo so I’d know if someone moved the rock.”

“You’re Geoffry’s little brother, yes? He was in my class last year, dumb as an ape and a thief to boot. He’d dig for five meters if he though he’d find a dime,” Sherlock informed us glumly. 

“I know. I think Geoff stole-d it.” Sherlock looked as though he might interrupt to correct the boy’s grammar. I shot him a dirty look. “I am hiring you to prove it. I was only gone for four days. No way he could spend ₤100 so fast without our parents catching on. I promise to pay even if you don’t find the money, but can prove he took it. If you do find something, I’ll give you a 10% bonus.” 

“Fifty percent,” Sherlock countered. “My associate and I are doing all the work. If I found the money on my own, I could tell you it was gone and keep every penny for myself. If you want it returned, you ought to offer me a greater reward.” Julian’s face took on a pinched appearance, as his eyes narrowed and lips puckered. I have to admit, Sherlock made a good point. 

“30% if you find less than ₤50, 15% for more. Final offer.” Holmes considered this momentarily and then agreed. “Geoff is shopping for school clothes with our mum. They wont be home until 5:00. You should come over now.” 

“Is there anyplace else your brother might have access to? Perhaps a spot he could hide his purchases?” Sherlock wondered. Julian nodded, pouting. 

“There’s an old tree-house in the park on Green St. None of the other kids go inside ‘cause they’re scared of him.” 

“We’ll check Geoffry’s room first. It’s a more likely hiding spot. He wouldn’t want that much money to be out of his control.” Julian seemed to agree. “Someone on holiday or an adult could look notice money in the park. I doubt even your brother is foolish enough to leave cash lying in the open” Once again the little boy nodded. 

Sherlock and I followed him to their house. It was two blocks away. He lead us up a flight of stairs to a small room with violent-themed movie posters on the walls, pictures of girls in bikinis too. There were filthy clothes and sweets wrappers strewn all about the room, and somehow the place smelled of sour milk. Sherlock scanned the space at an impossibly fast speed. He did this swishing thing with his fingers. He does it whenever he’s attempting to recall some kinds of information or needs to keep track of several details all at once. He tried explaining it once but all I understood was something about a castle in his brain. Funny, huh?

After less than five minutes, Sherlock gave Julian and I areas of the room to search, and started on a spot of his own. Forty minutes later, he pulled a large jar out from under a pile of dirty clothes. It was nearly empty. Sherlock stared at the money inside. “There is ₤9.75 in here, and another 20 quid of new merchandise. Do you now what that means?” 

“There is more money somewhere else?” Julian guessed. “Almost ₤80!” His eyes sparkled as he grinned extra wide. 

“It could be as much as ₤71.25, but my guess is that he purchased some sweets, crisps, and cakes as well. The evidence for those things might not be in here. He would have hidden the wrappers in the tree-house.” 

“I hadn’t considered that, but you’re right,” the boy murmured. “I bet he could eat 70 quid of sweets in four days.” 

“Not without getting dreadfully sick,” Holmes replied. He was right, again. Always. Just don’t tell him I said so. 

“There is no more evidence in this room. We should check the tree….wait!” Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, where he stood unblinking and barely breathing. He started doing the hand gestures again. “I ran through your garden on Tuesday evening. The ground was undisturbed. This afternoon I noticed three spots where holes had been dug and filled in. We should look there first.” Julian grabbed a few shovels, handing each of us one. My friend pointed out the disturbed areas. They seemed perfectly normal to me, but then I started digging and it was way too easy to move the dirt. Sometimes I get annoyed because he’s always right about just about everything. But usually it’s just impressive. 

After less than two minutes of digging, Sherlock put his shovel down. “Stop,” he told Julian and I. Then he examined the kid’s patch of dirt . “You, go to the kitchen and fetch me a colander,” he declared, without saying which of us ought to go.. Julian stared at us in confusion. Sherlock didn’t notice. 

“It’s a small, thin pot with loads of holes in it. Your mum probably washes vegetables in there and uses it when she makes pasta,” I explained. The boy was gone and back almost instantly. Sherlock started to scoop large handfuls of dirt into the colander. He told me to continue digging. “Don’t stop until you hear a clicking sound. Metal on metal. 

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Julian shouted when he saw the colander filled with dirt. Sherlock shook the metallic contraption a few times, uncovering a large number of quarters. He repeated the process three more times before returning to his original hole. He retrieved nearly as many quarters from each spot. In total, we recovered ₤68! Julian was so happy he wouldn’t stop thanking us. Sherlock kept insisting the whole thing had been boring and rather obvious. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was being modest. Honestly, I think he was only bored because the case had been soled.

He even used a weird brush and some black durst stuff to reveal several large fingerprints on the jar. He then successfully identified those prints as Geoff’s by matching them to ones from his other belongings. Julian was so happy he gave us our ₤5, fee, plus ₤10 each as the bonus! That’s a total of 30%!! Lastly, he promised to tell everyone how great Sherlock and I had been. This has been the most amazing day of my whole life.


End file.
